Follow Me Around [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

On 8th Street, the stars align and I hit my perfect stride.

The sun’s out. The new Beyoncé jam is blasting on my headphones, and I’m in a damn good mood as I make my way to the grocery store.

Am I strutting? I think I’m strutting.

I’m in the zone. My own little world. I can see everything else moving around me–the cars stuck in traffic and the other pedestrians bustling about with worried frowns on their faces–but it’s as if I’m seeing it all through a TV screen.

They can’t see me. I’m there–sharing the world with the rest of them–but they’re not paying attention. I might as well be invisible. This is liberating. This is freedom.

I can do whatever the hell I want to do.

Today I’m wearing a diaper. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone wandering across town with some extra padding, but it might be the most blatant I’ve ever been. This isn’t a pull-up under a pair of jeans. This is a thick pink plastic-backed thing–the kind made specifically for big babies who want to feel absolutely pathetic. And I’m not hiding it away beneath a pair of jeans today. The only thing between my diaper and the eyes of anyone outside is my white skirt.

And this skirt? It’s just barely long enough to cover my diaper. In fact, I’m pretty sure that there’s a few angles in which my skirt does absolutely nothing to conceal the pink padding.

I’m daring people to pay attention to me.

Beyoncé gives way to Tame Impala. I turn the volume up. Once in a while, I’m tempted to look around to see if anyone is looking at me. Are they staring? Smiling? Looking disgusted? I shake away the temptation to glance around and stay on my path. This isn’t about them. It’s about doing whatever I want to do without judgment.

I have to piss. This is not a surprise, by any means. I had been holding it all morning in expectation for this excursion. And while I once considered myself to be ‘pee-shy’ when it came to wetting myself in public, I’m feeling confident that I’ve got enough practice now that it’s no longer an issue.

It’s a piece of cake. I barely have to release the hold on my bladder for the floodgates to open. Mmmph. That feeling–the hot pee spilling into my diaper, saturating the padding quicker than it can be wicked away–turns me on so much that I feel my lips open enough for the slightest moan to escape. I can’t hear it–not with the volume up on my headphones–but I know I made the sound.

I wonder, briefly, if anyone else heard it. Probably not.

Flooding my diaper changes everything about how I walk. I feel myself slowing a little. The more that the diaper swells between my legs, the more difficult it is to take normal steps. I find myself making more careful and deliberate strides as I continue down the street. Maybe it’s not too noticeable to anyone else, unless they had already been watching me walk before I wet my diaper.

The wet diaper rubs between my legs with every step, and I have to clench my mouth shut so as to not moan more. Too, I can feel the diaper beginning to sag and pull on my hips. I reach behind me to feel the back of the skirt, only to find that the cloth had slowly been bunching up above the bottom of the diaper as I walked. I quickly tug it back down into place. I’m having a hard time believing that someone didn’t see my diaper now. Even after having adjusted my skirt, I could feel the bottom of the swollen garment sagging below the hem.

I just have to remind myself: This is what you wanted.

I feel a wave of calmness wash over me and I’m back in the groove again. My steps quickly find their pace in time with the beat of the song. I’m smiling. Good vibes are back.

Just in time, too. I see my destination ahead.

In the last hundred, or so, yards of my walk outside, I think about how long it’s been since I sat on the toilet and expelled my bowels. Yesterday, for sure. Afternoon? No, that doesn’t seem right. It had to have been yesterday morning–almost exactly 24 hours ago. I’ve had something cooking in my abdomen for a while now.

I haven’t fully committed to messing my diaper yet. It’s a wildcard–a little something I’ve got up my sleeve–up my ass, more like–if I’m feeling up to it.

Feeling up to it is a series of undefined variables. How many people are around? What do those people look like? Do I have a plan for escape? How catastrophic of a mess are we talking? It’d be hard to say what the ideal situation is–only that I’d know it when I see it.

I’ve messed in public before, though I’ve never been especially daring about it. It’s happened when the coast was 99% clear, shortly followed by a mad dash back to my apartment to rub my pussy and clean up. In that specific order.

But I’ve got it in my head today that I can take it a bit further. I can just stroll through the store, bopping my head to the music, and unload into the diaper. Regardless of who else is around. With no plan in place for how long I linger after, or what the escape plan is.

I’m still on the fence about it. It’s a hot idea–very hot–but I’m not completely sure that I’m ready for it. And the store is surprisingly busy for midday on a Tuesday.

Wait and see. That’s my mantra, and I’m sticking with it. It’s more than enough to be waddling through the aisles with my sagging diaper peeking out from under the skirt. No matter how many times I reach behind my back to straighten the skirt out, I can feel the warm plastic hanging out in the open.

That’s…a little embarrassing. But very exciting.

Queen is next in the queue. “Don’t Stop Me Now” never fails to get me moving. I think I’m strutting again. I’m taking some bold steps, and I feel my diaper squishing and flexing as it tries to keep up with me. I can only imagine what it looks like to others.

Somewhere in the bread aisle, I spot a shadow that seems to be following mine, at about the same pace. I’m tempted to spin around and see who it might be, but I fight off the urge. This isn’t about them, it’s about me. And if they want to follow me along for the ride, that’s on them.

To my surprise, knowing that there’s someone following behind me–and I continue to see their shadow as I enter the dairy section–actually manages to empower me. I don’t want to run from them and take cover. I want them to follow me wherever I go. Forever. No matter how rank my diaper should become.

As I grab a carton of oat milk to put in my shopping basket, the shadow draws closer until a body steps into view to my left. I’m a little disappointed–not in who it is, but that the person couldn’t just keep up the mystery a little longer. I turn down the volume, just in case.

“Excuse me, miss?”

He looks as polite as he sounds, with his Ben Folds haircut and buttoned up plaid shirt.

I pretend not to hear him, or see him. It’s my hope that he just thinks I genuinely was unaware of him and he goes back to following me.

But no. He’s persistent.

“Excuse me? Miss?”

Okay, fine. I pause Eminem.

“Yes?”

“I…I’m sorry to bother you.”

But not so sorry that you don’t just leave me alone instead? I sigh, quickly composing myself. I put on my nice face.

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“I just…I noticed that you’re, uh…” He points down to my skirt.

I know what he’s trying to say. And, honestly, I appreciate him coming forward to tell me. Especially when I’ve walked past god-knows how many people who didn’t say a damn thing to me.

But I can’t help myself. I need to play coy a little.

“I’m sorry?” I say. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Y-you’re skirt,” he says, pointing to it again. “It seems to be riding up a little and your…uhm…”

I’m genuinely curious what it is that he thinks he sees. Panties? Or does he recognize it as something entirely abnormal from what he expects a woman in her early 20s to be wearing?

I continue to feign ignorance. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Is something wrong with my skirt?”

“Your, uh, underpants,” he says, getting the word ‘underpants’ out of his mouth as quickly as he can. “They’re showing.”

It’s kind of cute to watch him wriggle. I wish I could think of ways to make this moment last forever.

Instead, I change up the game a little: “Oh, those aren’t my panties.” True, he never said ‘panties,’ but I assume that’s the implication from ‘underpants.’

This answer seems to catch him completely off guard. I watch as he runs seemingly complex equations in his head. Either he’s trying to figure out what I’m wearing if it’s not panties, or he already knows it’s a diaper and he can’t figure out why I’d admit as much.

“R-regardless,” he finally says. “I thought that maybe you’d want to know that it’s showing.”

“Oh?” I twist my back and attempt to look at my own ass, as if I’m oblivious to the problem that he’s bringing to my attention. I reach behind my back, giving the hem of my skirt the most mild of tugs in an effort to conceal the diaper. “Did that do it? Did I cover it up?”

I spin around so that my ass is facing him, bending over a little to give him a better view.

“Well…it looked better for a moment,” he says. “But bending over like that just seems to make it show again.”

What a kind, and naive, boy. There’s absolutely no way, at this point, that he can’t see that I’m wearing a thick pink diaper. I’m unsure how obvious it is that I’ve completely saturated it, but I’m already brainstorming ways I can bring this up.

“Oh jeez,” I say, trying to walk the line between sounding sincerely oblivious and just sarcastic. “I sure did pick the wrong skirt today, huh?”

“Uhm…if you want,” he says, shrugging sheepishly, “I could follow you around in the store, you know? I could block everyone else’s view of the, uh, back of your skirt?”

“You’d do that for me?” I ask. This is not acting–I’m genuinely touched by his commitment to a stranger’s comfort.

“I just don’t want you to be embarrassed,” he says.

My first instinct is that he’s too nice, too seemingly genuine, to put through the ringer. I should either tell him to fuck off or let him follow me for a few minutes until I leave the grocery store. Then it’s back home, likely feeling unfulfilled at how this trip went.

Fuck it. I take a deep breath and smile. I came here, like this, for me. And he’s welcome to tag along if he wants, but I’m not ready to leave my little world yet.

“Okay,” I say to him. I could say more, but I leave it at that. He can do whatever he wants with that response.

Just like that, I’m back to shopping. I hit play as I grab some butter, and a rather amped-up Eminem is rapping into my ears again. It’s surprisingly easy to get back into my groove and to tune out whether or not this good samaritan is lurking somewhere in my periphery.

It’s when I walk into the frozen food aisle, surrounded on both sides by the heavy glass doors, that I catch his reflection behind me. He’s still there, sticking close in a misguided attempt to block anyone else from seeing my sagging diaper.

I’m tempted to continue ignoring him, but now I’m a little unsure of what to think about this guy. I pause my music again.

“I’m not sure how much you’re actually helping,” I say, turning to face him. “Curious eyes are going to see everything.”

Something in my tone seems to hit him, and I see a light bulb going off above his head.

“Do you want people to see your, uhm…”

Almost. He came so close to saying what he actually thought it was that was hanging below the hem of my skirt.

“Maybe,” I say.

I’m curious to see how he’ll react. Does he admit defeat–seeing as how his altruistic gesture is completely unnecessary–and walk away?

He laughs to himself. Just a tiny chuckle. It’s the first time that he seems genuinely human to me, rather than a robot who is programmed only to be nice.

“I guess I should’ve seen that coming,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He looks…relieved. Or, at the very least, he’s let his guard down a little. “It made no sense to me that you’d be strutting around with your, uh, diaper showing.”

So my strut was noticeable?

Oh, and right, he had figured out that I wasn’t just wearing panties.

“Your kindness was appreciated,” I say to him. “But your services aren’t required.”

“W-wait,” he says, holding a hand out towards me as I begin to walk away.

“Yes?”

He opens his mouth, but he clearly has no idea what to say. I can’t help but smile again. This was our chance for a clean break and to walk away, but for whatever reason, he’s not done with this moment yet.

“Was there something else?” I add.

He sighs. Either he doesn’t yet know why he stopped me, or he’s uncomfortable saying the reason aloud.

“Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to get back to shopping.” And for good measure, I throw in: “I still need to get some cereal and diaper rash cream. You know–just in case.”

“I…I want to know more!” he says suddenly, and maybe a tad too aggressively–like he had to force the words out of his mouth and didn’t have time to control how loud he was.

I’m tempted to just abandon my shopping basket in the aisle and ask him to leave with me. We could go get some coffee and I’d tell him all about my squishy diaper. But no.

“Follow me around,” I tell him. “I’ve got things to do, but maybe I can answer a question or two while I do.

“O-okay,” he stammers, perhaps not expecting me to be amenable to his curiosity.

I take off my headphones, setting them around the back of my neck. I’d much rather be listening to music–and continuing with my soggy strut–but getting followed by this little puppy doesn’t seem all that bad either.

I go back to shopping, casually strolling down the aisle and occasionally pausing to look at items on the shelves. He remains in my orbit, always just a few feet away.

“Do you…have a disability?” he asks. “Like, uh, one that would require you to wear…one of those.”

Poor bashful boy is already back to being unable to say the word. “If you can’t say the word,” I say, “I’m not sure I want to answer the question.”

“The…diaper,” he says, before starting over again: “Do you have to wear diapers?”

I see no reason to lie. In fact, telling the truth seems like far more fun.

“Oh, gosh no,” I say, throwing a nonchalant shrug. “I wear them because I like them. Love them, actually.”

I can’t see his face–he’s somewhere behind me–but I wish that I could. I’m very curious about how he reacted to that.

“I’ve never heard of anything like that before,” he says.

So naive.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a very popular kink,” I say. “But we’re out there.”

“Oh,” he says, pure astonishment in his voice. “A kink?”

I laugh as I grab some toothpaste off of the shelf and drop it into my basket. “Of course it’s a kink.”

“I…I guess that makes sense,” he says. “So…you get off on it?”

“If I’m not, it’d be a terrible kink.”

I turn around for just a moment to get a look at him. His head is pivoting back and forth on his neck as he keeps an eye out for anyone who might hear our conversation, and I’m worried he’s going to end up snapping his neck if he keeps that up.

“What turns you on about it?”

“It does the same thing that most good kinks do, I suspect,” I say. “It gives you a space to have fun with something that the rest of society wouldn’t approve of. And what’s more looked down upon than an adult woman walking around and willingly filling her diaper?”

“Filling? Like…you…”

“Fill it?” I say, laughing as I finish his question for him. “Yes, that’s what I said. That’s the reason you’re seeing my diaper peek out from under my skirt–it’s getting a little heavy in there.”

“Y-you used your…diaper?” he asked, his voice getting a little more hushed.

“Wet it,” I say with great confidence. “A real thorough soaking, too. And I’m not done yet.”

“You’re going to wet it again?” he asks. I can hear the location of his voice shifting behind me. I wonder if he’s trying to get a better view of my soggy diaper. “But…it already seems quite full.”

“I’d wet it again if I could,” I state, continuing my slow stroll into the next aisle. “Alas, when you’ve held it for as long as I have, it tends to just come out all at once.”

“Oh, but–”

“That’s not to say that I’ve got nothing left for this diaper,” I say. Am I being a little louder than I should be? I might be–but I want to be sure that he hears me. Having anyone else overhear our conversation might just be icing on the cake. “A baby doesn’t just wet her diaper, you know?”

“W-wait,” he stammers. “You do…that? In your diaper? In your pants?”

I laugh. His questions–his disbelief–truly delight me.

He seems to take this response as an affirmative answer. As he should have.

“But you wouldn’t do that here, right?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“People wouldn’t…like it?”

“Are you asking me? Well, I suppose you’re right. People wouldn’t like it very much, no. But that’s why it's a kink, y’know?”

“I see,” he says.

I’m not a mind-reader, and I may have reached the limit of what I could assume based on his mannerisms and body language. He seems confused–but he’s seemed that way since the start of our conversation.

“Didn’t you come to the store to get your own shopping done?” I ask.

“I haven’t been in a rush, I guess.”

“Well, if you want to see what happens next, just keep following me.” I hope that he also hears the unspoken part: Otherwise, go back to doing your own thing.

He sighs and nods, not audibly committing to either following me or leaving me alone. This bothers me for only the briefest moment, but I quickly realize that I like this response–or lack thereof–even more.

I slide my headphones back over my ears and hit play. I’ve got a few seconds left of Eminem’s plight before The Gorillaz take over. The beat quickly finds its way to my feet. I’m pretty sure that I’ve found my strut again.

He’s either behind me or he isn’t. I try not to think about it too much–which is surprisingly easier than I thought it’d be. I’m back in my groove again, and today is about me once more. I stop myself from looking for his reflection or shadow. As much as I wouldn’t mind knowing that I have an audience, it’s almost more exciting that I don’t know whether I have one or not.

I have everything I came to the store for. I’m almost disappointed–I wouldn’t mind spending another hour or two just meandering around the store slowly as my bloated diaper continued to sag out from beneath my skirt. But, perhaps it's time to pack it up and head back home.

But I’ve decided that I have one more thing I want to do before I go.

I’m taking one more long lap around the store before heading to the checkout. I walk all the way back to the produce section near the entrance to the store, and begin my final stroll. By the time I’ve cleared produce and wandered past the deli counter, I’ve already begun to apply a little pressure to my bowels. It won’t take much–I’ve been aching for a while now. It feels like I’m playing chicken with myself–teasing myself by pushing just enough that my body thinks it can finally relieve itself, yet not enough that I actually do.

I lose the game by the time I get back to the dairy cases. My tired bowels are no longer interested in cooperating, and my body just gives up.

With my headphones on, I can’t hear the sound that’s made by my ass erupting into the diaper. I wonder how loud it is–or if it’s loud enough that others can hear it over the ambient noise of the grocery store. Carts squeaking, people talking, low-quality pop music being piped over the loudspeakers, the hum of the freezers and fridges. Somewhere in all that noise was the sound of me pushing a thick mess into the seat of my pants.

“Fuck,” I say to myself in a hushed tone. I can’t help myself.

I can’t get the thought of the noise it may have made out of my head. Years of shitting myself have taught me a few things, and I feel like I know when a mess is an especially loud one. This felt loud.

I smirk, wondering if my naive little shadow-boy is still behind me. If he is, what did he see? What did he hear?

What will he be smelling soon?

I can feel my skirt riding up a little again, but I make no effort to pull it down. Fuck it. This is what I wanted–to be on display. I’m a dirty little baby girl, and I want everyone to know it.

Hrm. I can smell myself–and I am quite ripe. It’s a scent so unpleasant that it somehow transcends being both terrible and so-disgusting-that-it’s-blissful and becomes terrible again. As much as I’d love to linger in the store a little longer in this state, it’s probably for the best if I make my exit.

I add a little pep to my step to get to the self-checkout quickly. I try to keep my eyes fixed at the floor ahead of me as I walk, but I can’t help myself and I sometimes glance up to see if anyone is looking at me. A few times, I catch the eyes of strangers lingering on me a little longer than they should. Can they see my diaper? Can they smell my diaper?

But I’m smiling. I’m in love with this chaos I’ve created, and these memories of walking through the store with a loaded diaper are going to stick in my head for a long time.

Soon after, I’m outside again. The last few minutes in the store are a blur. The scent of my diaper had gotten so rank that it was throwing off my game. I wanted to enjoy it more, but the last shreds of my civility pushed me to just complete my transaction and make a brisk exit. I had even pulled down the back of my skirt one last time–an involuntary move on my part.

“I…I can’t believe you did that,” a voice from behind me says when I’m about a block away from the grocery store. I could barely hear him over my music, but his message manages to get through.

I spin around, and I’m shocked to see that the same naive young man from the store is still behind me.

“You saw that, huh?”

He nods. “I think a few people did.”

A warm feeling of joy spreads through my body. And my diaper–an involuntary spurt of warm pee enters the already dreadfully packed padding.

“Good,” I say.

“What now?” he asks.

“I’ll probably go home. Take a shower and put a new diaper on. Well…probably not immediately. I’ve got a few other things to take care of before that.”

“Y-your diaper smells really bad,” he says. I can’t be sure, but it almost looks like he’s smirking.

“But do you like it?” I ask.

He laughs and scratches his head again. “I think so.”

“Follow me,” I say. “There’s so much more to see.”

I turn around, increase the volume on the headphones, and I strut all the way home.